Trench Warfare
by Blood Dark Sun
Summary: Blackadder's stuck with two new transfers: Sgt Kirkland and Pvt Beilschmidt! And Flashheart is coming to town. Rated T for language and innuendo.
1. There's Always Room for More

**There's Always Room for More.**

"Good morning, _Darling_." Blackadder felt himself in fine form this morning, and put _just _that extra bit of snark into his tone. "You're looking particularly – inept? – today."

"Blackadder." Captain Darling was, as usual, not amused.

"The general wants to see me?"

"He's just gotten off the 'phone with HQ. Something _good_ is coming your way, Blackadder," Darling smirked. "I'm _so happy_ for you."

_Great. Probably another request for a dance-hall musicale._

"Darling?" bellowed General Melchett from inside the office. "Where the devil is Blackadder? I'm a busy man, a busy, busy man!"

"Yes, yes, he's right here, General. Go in, _Captain._"

Blackadder rolled his eyes at Darling and strode into the general's office with a sloppy salute.

"Good morning, General Melchett, sir!"

"Yes, yes, no need to stand on ceremony, Blackadder. How are the men doing? All well?"

"Well, sir, there is that little matter of—"

"Very good, very good. Now, Captain, pay attention."

Blackadder tried not to look insubordinate, and failed.

"We have some men transferring to our division today. I'm assigning them to your platoon."

"What?"

As though he hadn't heard this outburst (and perhaps he hadn't), the general continued. "Just two, nothing to worry about. Darling will be bringing them in shortly. DARLIIIING!"

Blackadder jumped, then: "General, please! Why do you have to assign them to _me_?"

Darling and the two new soldiers entered the room just in time to hear General Melchett say, "Because you and your men need a shake-up, Captain, you've grown too complacent. Too-oo-o complacent, yes!" He looked at the new arrivals in surprise. "What the hell's this, Darling?"

Both the new men raised their eyebrows at the term of endearment.

"_Captain_ Darling," that man ground out. "These are Captain Blackadder's new transfers." He stepped forward and handed Melchett two file folders, sneering defensively at Blackadder as he passed.

"Yes, that's right, Blackadder, you have some new transfers here."

Blackadder rolled his eyes _again_. Darling left the room.

"Gentlemen, please step forward." The two did so, and Blackadder got his first good look at them.

An albino! Tall, thin, with a military bearing, the young man's crimson eyes looked at Blackadder with ill-concealed mirth. Blackadder disliked him on sight and tried to look down at him – a difficult feat considering the albino was several inches taller than he was.

The other man, blond, was about the same age and height as Blackadder. He seemed slightly calmer – he merely stood at attention, watching the general. Vivid green eyes peeked out from under truly formidable eyebrows, and seemed to specifically avoid looking towards the albino.

"Right, now, gents, this is your new platoon leader, Captain Edmund Blackadder. Here we have Sergeant Arthur Kirkland" – the blond nodded curtly – "and Private Gilbert Beilschmidt. Weilschmidt?" Melchett turned the paper upside-down, as though that would help him decipher it.

"Beilschmidt!" the albino barked, irritated. "Sir."

Kirkland rolled his eyes.

"You're putting a _Jerry_ in my platoon?" Blackadder asked, aghast.

"Not a Jerry," Beilschmidt offered cheekily. "Born and raised in London."

Blackadder's eyes narrowed at this unasked-for backchat, but he chose not to answer the man. Interesting to note that the other guy – Kirkland – was now grinding his teeth. "General, anything special still needing to be done here?"

Melchett was still trying to decipher Beilschmidt's paperwork. "Beilschmidt," he finally concluded, having missed the entire previous conversation. "Righto, then, Captain, get these men out of here." He slapped the folder on the desk and walked to his drinks cabinet. "Oh, and one more thing…Squadron Commander the Lord Flashheart is coming to your barracks tomorrow. He's got some information you'll need to collaborate on."

Blackadder groaned theatrically. "_Not _that arrogant, pompous, narcissistic idiot again—"

Kirkland snorted and muttered, sotto voce, "Sounds just like Beilschmidt."

"Hey, I heard that!"

"_When_ you two are quite finished," Blackadder barked. The new men snapped to attention. "Good. Now, unfortunately, we have to show respect to Lord Flashheart. He's the squadron commander of the Twenty Minuters."

"Never heard of him," they replied in unison. The blond looked intensely irritated at this, while the albino cackled.

"Blackadder, will you _please_ take these men out of here? I'm a busy man! DARLIIIING!"


	2. How to Be Awesome

**How to Be Awesome.**

"Now, gentlemen, this is your new home away from home, you will be on those two bunks _there_, and – ah yes, here's our Baldrick."

_Oh, I can meet these guys later; first, I need to stake my claim_. "Hey, watch this, Artie!" I dramatically flung my duffel bag all the way across the tiny room onto the lower bunk, so I wouldn't have to exert so much effort getting up in the morning. "Yes!" I managed to land it right into the center of the bunk. Victory dance!

Arthur was left with no option but the remaining top bunk. He glared at me, but I defused that by grinning at him with my megawatt smile. The poor guy has never been able to stand how astonishing my beaming smile can be, especially when combined with my stunning crimson eyes. "Come on, Artie, just deal with it. You were too slow!" He simply scowled and threw his bag up on the top bunk without responding, while I buffed my nails on my jacket.

After this little bit of by-play, we turned to meet our new trench-mates.

Wow…now _that_ was one scary creature! A tiny, filthy man with glasses was staring googly-eyed at me, with his head tilted back almost ninety degrees out of vertical. "Ooooooh!" he exclaimed. (I'm used to this sort of hero-worship. Everyone appreciates an awesome guy like me.) "Wow, you're so _big_! And so white and _clean_!" he breathed.

Blackadder snorted. "Unlike you, Baldrick, there are, in fact, soldiers all over the known world to whom proper hygiene does not mean cleaning your face by rubbing it with the sole of your boot. Private Gilbert Weilschmidt, Sergeant Arthur Kirkland, this is Private S. Baldrick."

"Beilschmidt," I responded automatically. Seriously, what's with these guys? First Melchett and now Blackadder, not able to remember my name. Nobody else _ever_ forgot the awesome name of Beilschmidt before this. But I'll straighten them out eventually.

Bending over towards the dirty little private, waggling my fingers in a little wave, I cooed, "Hello, little Baldrick. Call me Gilbert," basking in his adoration. "It's a real pleasure to meet you." I refrained from shaking his grubby little paw, though. Didn't want to catch anything. He just kept staring, kesesese. (Of course he did.)

Arthur slammed his fist against the wall, startling everyone, but he didn't speak, just looked at his fist where it rested on the wall. I gave him my best coy look, the one that always pisses him off. But he wasn't even looking! Boy, that man can crush my ego. "Jealous, are you, Artie?"

"It's _Arthur_, wanker." To Baldrick he merely nodded, but Baldrick was still staring at me (believe it or not) and didn't respond.

"George!" Blackadder yelled towards the door. A very gangly young man with an eager look stepped in and saluted the Captain.

"Hello, skipper! What's happening? Ah, some new men for the trench? Excellent, excellent. Now we have enough for a good tournament of tiddly-winks, right, Cap? Hello there!" George shook hands with each of us (without expressing any undue adoration towards me – hmm). And – _tiddly-winks_? Was this guy serious? Huh, looked like he actually might be.

"Lieutenant the Honorable George Colthurst St. Barleigh," Blackadder announced, with a surprising amount of warmth in his voice. Quite a name. But I guess a trench without a nob is just not a real trench.

"So then this is it?" Artie then asked the captain. "This is the sum total of our platoon, Britain's finest, going to win the war for us?" I couldn't believe he was making no attempt to keep the scorn out of his voice; this is the kind of thing that got him in trouble last time! "It's bad enough I'm still stuck with Beilschmidt, but…" Suddenly my old comrade realized he was cheeking a superior officer and slowed to a halt.

"Oh, you'll _love_ it here," George enthused before the captain could respond, completely ignoring the substance of what Artie had said. "Captain Blackadder is as fair and firm as a…fair, firm thing!" He nodded vigorously.

Artie and Blackadder each raised an eyebrow at that – in Arthur's case a truly alarming sight! George kept waffling on like this for several moments, explaining to us both the joys of bunking with Captain Blackadder, or "the Cap," as he called him. I tuned him out and looked at Blackadder again, who was pressing his fingers into his eye sockets. At first I'd thought he and this lieutenant were friends, or at least that Blackie wasn't hostile to George, but maybe I'd been wrong. Did this guy appreciate _anyone_? Was our life in this trench going to be a living hell? I wasn't worried about the actual warfare part. But I'd have to deal with some kind of social life with these guys twenty-four hours a day! Huh. Seemed like this was a job for the Awesome Me, livening up the place and easing tensions. Yeah_. _Have to think about that a little.

"George, you know it's inappropriate to sing my praises like that," Blackadder finally interrupted. "Please cease and desist. And get out of here. This bunker is too small for the five of us to be standing around; I feel like a very large goldfish that has just been invited to bunk in a very full sardine can." George saluted and instantly walked out the door.

"Please feel free to transfer me elsewhere at your earliest convenience," Artie sneered.

No! It would be no fun at all if he got transferred. Who would I torment? Baldrick_?_ That wouldn't be much of a challenge at all. I had to nip that transfer idea in the bud. "Kesesese~! You _are_ cheeking a superior officer," I pointed out in delight, in case Blackadder had missed it. Arthur blushed and turned to me with a frown.

"Was not."

"Were too."

"Was not!"

"As entertaining as this intellectual discussion may be," Blackadder interrupted, "it is not getting any work done. Baldrick, please take our new boys out and show them around. If either of them should desire a quick tour of No-Man's-Land, feel free to escort them there personally, with a large target held in front of them." He slammed his hat down on the table.

"Hey, what'd I do?" Seriously, why me? Artie was the one who'd been cheeking him.

"Right. Weilschmidt, tonight your punishment is fifty pushups."

"_Beil_schmidt! Pfft, fifty pushups is nothing. Hell, I can do that with one hand tied behind my back, I'm that amazing." But why was he punishing me? I really didn't get it. I looked at Arthur, and he was grinning his nasty grin. Fuck, I hated that look.

"All right then, one hundred pushups, with one hand tied behind your back. While I watch, sitting here with a delicious cup of tea, and a bun."

At this point I decided discretion was the better part of valor, and pressed my lips together to keep from cheeking him. Artie laughed out loud. Ah, let him have his little moment of triumph. Fifty, a hundred, still no problem. He probably just wants to watch me doing a hundred one-handed pushups, anyway.

"Where we gonna get a bun, Captain?" Baldrick put in innocently. "Or a delicious cup of tea? Only tea we have is that one teabag we confiscated from General Melchett's office a few weeks ago. We've only used it twenty-six times; I might be able to coax another cup out of it…" he trailed off.

"Never mind that, Baldrick. Take these men out of here. I need some peace and quiet._"_

George was waiting outside the bunker with a cheaply-made periscope-type thing, which he was using to look over the top of the trench. Artie tried to sound official, even though George outranked him. "Anything to see up there, Lieutenant?"

"No, no, not at all, not – at – all," the tall young man replied. "No movement, no nothing." He brought the periscope thing back down and turned around. "It's a good thing we took the mirrors out of this thing, because it's a lot less scary now!" He handed the fake periscope to Arthur, who examined it in rising disgust and handed it off to Baldrick, who was staring at me again. Heh.

"Have you ever, while you've been in this trench, seen any signs of intelligent life?" Artie barked. By this point, Blackadder had exited the bunker behind us, but neither Arthur nor George noticed.

"You know what? You sound just like Captain Blackadder!" George said with glee. "He's just the same kind of sarcastic bas—Oh, hello, Captain, I was just telling Sergeant Kirkland that you and he have a lot in common."

Both Blackadder and Arthur looked appalled at this, though I had to fight to restrain a snicker. Blackie shook his head. "George, one more comment like that and I shall have you shot for insubordination." Artie on the other hand began to look as though a visit to No-Man's-Land might be his best option at this point.

"But sir! Surely you'd appreciate the camaraderie you can share, since he has the same way of looking at the world? No?" George's face fell.

"George, shut up. Remember telling me your debating team voted you the Boy Least Likely to Complete a Coherent…?" Blackadder let the thought dangle.

George frowned in concentration. Artie and I eyed each other nervously. George frowned some more. "Sentence!" Arthur finally yelled out.

"Thank you, Sergeant Kirkland. You see, George? Even _Eyebrows_ here can make pertinent comments."

Ooh, that wasn't good. Arthur was very touchy about his eyebrows. But I was willing to bet my rifle he wouldn't snark the captain again. Not today, anyway. Those eyebrows drew together in a subtle frown, but I was right, of course; he didn't say a word. Damn, I'm good. I buffed my fingernails on my jacket absently.

"Look, this has been a very difficult day for everyone, so far. Let's all go back in and try to relax. We don't need to be standing out here making all this noise to attract Jerry's artillery fire."

We all filed back into the bunker. "Is this what it's like around here all the time?" I flopped down on my bunk and stared at the underside of Arthur's. Nobody answered me. Huh. Maybe it was.

Artie chose not to climb up to his bunk but to sit at the foot of mine. Ha, it's so funny how he can't really stay mad at me. I blew him a kiss and he rolled his eyes, leaning against the wall tiredly. I knew he was probably craving a drink…probably more than one! Captain B and George each sat down on their bunks, ignoring us, and George pulled out a copy of "King and Country" to read. Baldrick puttered around with something, not looking at the rest of us. Damn, this was going to be really boring_._ Well, once we'd settled in and gotten comfortable with these guys, I'm sure I could come up with some ways to goose them up a little.

I cast my mind back to the day Arthur and I had first met. We'd been in the same unit for Basic Training. Ah, good times, good times; that nasty drill sergeant couldn't take my awesomeness, and had given me preferential treatment _all the time_. That was what really made Artie so angry with me, I think. Every time one of us got transferred, somehow the other one did too…and so he was always standing in my shadow. Poor guy. I mean, I did try to make things easier for him…didn't I? Well, I didn't let him have the bottom bunk, but that was trivial. I'm always willing to take care of my friends. I think he just hated to admit that we were friends by now. But come on! Who always helped him on his midnight liquor raids? The Awesome Me, of course. Good thing we'd never gotten caught. Ah, well, whatever. Let him have his little sulks. He was more fun that way. I stifled a "kesesese."

The telephone rang. "Captain Blackadder here…" A series of squawks erupted from the earpiece. "Oh, God, it's you_._ I thought you weren't going to get here until tomorrow…Yes, yes, fine, we're all here, bring a shoehorn!" He slammed the phone down. "Well, George and Baldrick, in just a few short minutes your day will be complete, and mine will be complete pigswill. The world's most pompous ass, Lord bloody Flashheart, is on his way over." He put his head in his hands.

"Do you mean that Arthur and, and G-gilbert" – aww, Baldrick was so shy of me! – "don't like Lord Flashheart? But he's the best! His Flying Aces are so fabulous!"

"Righto indeed, Balders, old chap," George agreed, saluting arbitrarily. "That man is responsible for raising the morale of the entire British army!"

"Not the entire British army, I'm afraid," Artie interjected. "Beilschmidt and I never heard of the fellow."

"Oh, this is going to be good," Blackadder sneered. I found myself wondering just what it was about this Flashheart that irritated our new captain so.

…

"Hello, chaps, write your mothers, change your trousers, Flash is back in town! Woof!"

An astonishingly handsome and charismatic man bounded into the bunker. Not as handsome and charismatic as me, of course. That wouldn't be awesome at all. Dressed in a long brown leather coat, with blond hair and a mustache nearly the size of General Melchett's, he exuded confidence. I sat up on my bunk to get a better look. Balders and George immediately snapped to attention, saluting with inane grins on their faces.

Blackadder stood up. "Flashheart, you git, I thought you weren't going to arrive until tomorrow. Come a bit early, did you?" This in an arch, suggestive tone.

"Nonsense, Slackie, Flash only _comes_ when _he's_ ready to! Now introduce me to your new boys, I bet they're just _panting_ for it." He accompanied this comment with a pelvic thrust. Ha. This was more like it!

"This is Lord Flashheart…well-known git and psychotic narcissist. This is our new sergeant, Arthur Kirkland."

Artie stood up as Flash was introduced to him. Then I unfolded myself from the bunk to my full height, standing a few inches taller than this Flashheart. Decided to hit him with the full force of my personality all at once, see how he reacted. See if he was as fabulous as they all said he was, and give these new guys a taste of what the Awesome Me was really like.

"And this is Private Gilbert Beilschmidt," Blackadder announced. (Hey, he got it right!) Flashheart's eyes grew wide. Score! I knew he'd be intrigued.

"Is that an Enfield in my pocket, or am I just happy to see you?" I purred, extending my hand.

"Damn it, Beilschmidt! If I'd known I was going to meet a guy like you, maybe I would have _come early!_ Woof!" He shook my hand and I knew instantly we were kindred spirits. I pulled him into a dip and then upright again, spinning him in the close confines of the bunker. Oh, yeah! Things in this bunker suddenly got a lot more interesting.

We stopped gyrating when I heard Artie mutter, "Two bloody peas in a pod!" He smacked himself in the forehead.

By contrast, Captain Blackie was simply staring at us both, with his jaw dropped, unable to speak.

"Guess we wowed them with our awesomeness, right, Flash? Kesesese!"

"Too much for their feeble brains to take," he agreed, giving me the thumbs-up.

Blackadder sank down onto his bunk, head in hands. Ha! It looked like the war wasn't going to be so boring, after all.

…

_If you're reading this and unfamiliar with Blackadder, and would like to know more, it's available on Netflix instant. Look for the season called "Blackadder Goes Forth." There are only six episodes. I hope I'm doing a good job with those guys!_


	3. Flash by Name, Flash by Nature

**Flash by Name, Flash by Nature.**

"Woof! Now listen here, chaps. General Melchett, that big blowhard, has given me permission to use your services to help out my squadron."

"Kesesese!"

"Oh, shut up, Weilschmidt."

"_Beilschmidt!_"

"Sir, oh, sir, what do we have to do?" Hah, Blackadder's grimy little weasel put his hand up like a schoolkid. I love making these little boys pant in admiration. Ol' George was looking pretty eager, too. Well, of course he was!

I strode back and forth in the little space; my new friend Gilbert had to sit on his bunk to make room for me. "The Twenty Minuters' planes are looking rather shabby these days. I need someone to paint them. Melchett said I could have you. Hop to it, lads."

Other than Baldrick there was a surprising lack of hop-to-it-iveness. Gilbert's friend looked distinctly pissed off at this. Loser.

"Come on!" I shouted. "What could be so bad about it? A day out of the trenches, in the nice sunshine, painting my planes?" I smiled at Gilbert, waggling my eyebrows. "_You_ can paint my personal plane, if you like, Beilschmidt."

"Woof," he agreed with a grin, and Blackadder groaned.

"This is bloody stupid," he said, predictably, and Kirkland nodded agreement. "Who cares how your blasted planes look? As long as they're not falling apart you shouldn't be so prissy about it."

"Aha! I've got you there, Slackbladder. We're painting them with a new type of camouflage. It's called dazzle camouflage. Come on, lads, I mean it. Get up; get your painting duds on. Let's go."

"Hold on, hold on, hold _on_," that wet blanket said again. "Flashheart, you're a total git. Dazzle camouflage is for _ships_. Any idiot will be able to figure out which direction a plane is flying." Blackadder smirked at me.

"Don't blame me, Bladders, this comes from the top brass. I don't want my planes out of commission that long, anyway, but it's got to be done. Kit up, boys. I'm taking you all out for a big piss-up afterwards."

Whoa! Kirkland was off the bunk and digging into his duffel bag already. Good motivator, that.

Soon, but not soon enough, all of them were dressed in assorted shabby clothes, waiting to leave. "Wait, wait a minute," I realized. "I've only got room for four. One of you will have to stay here."

So I looked at them. George and Baldrick both looked sad and pleading. George looks very funny when he has that pouty look! Gilbert, well, he knew I wouldn't seriously leave him behind, not my new awesome friend, not on a day like today. And Kirkland? He was jittering like a drunk with the DT's, not meeting my eyes, clenching and unclenching his fists.

To my surprise (or maybe not), Blackadder had a big fat smirk on his ugly mug. "Wonderful. I will stay here in the trench, _alone_, and have some peace and quiet, while you drag these four _boys_ off to paint your bloody ships in their dazzle camouflage."

"Planes," Kirkland muttered.

"What?"

"Planes, not ships!" he barked, and then turned red.

But Blackie was too excited about being alone; he didn't care if some sergeant cheeked him. I struck a dramatic pose, pointing to the doorway. "Right, boys, let's get moving. Have a good old lonely time, Slackie! See you tonight!" I led the boys out to the car and we all scrambled in.

…

"Whoa," Baldrick said in appreciation. "That's what we have to paint?"

Of course he and George had seen my planes before, but there was a fully-painted plane in dazzle camo right in front of us, and it looked impressive. Wide stripes of black and white zigzagged all over the plane; I was so proud of the boys in my squadron. "Where is everyone else?" I asked the quartermaster.

"Went off to the town to pick up girls," he laughed.

George sighed. "Girls."

"Town," Gilbert agreed, heartfelt.

"_Drinks_."

"Stop moping. Get busy painting and we'll go into town for girls _and_ drinks. No promises to _you_, Baldrick." The quartermaster showed them to the paint supplies; I pointed out the planes, and then kicked back in a comfortable camp chair to watch them work.

…

"Kesesese! Isn't this fun, Artie? Way better than all that kitchen duty we had to do in the last platoon."

Arthur just grunted and kept painting. "I'm only here for one reason," he finally muttered.

"Yes, yes, I know, you and your awesome drinking. Hey, I had this idea." Gilbert dipped his paintbrush into the black paint again and started working on a new stripe.

"What idea?" Arthur looked a bit suspicious at that.

"These uniforms are old and shabby, right? Why don't we paint our uniforms in dazzle camouflage? Wouldn't that be awesome?"

Arthur stopped painting and stared at him. "What the bloody hell would we want to do that for?"

"Don't be an idiot, Arthur. If we have to sneak out some night, we can wear our camo! Nobody will spot us."

"Idiot. In the town this stuff won't camouflage a thing." He looked up at the plane he was painting. "I'm not even sure it makes sense to paint the planes this way. I think bloody Blackadder was right."

"Well, we have to do it, even if it's stupid. Come on. If we paint our clothes this way, they'll be dry by the time we go to town."

Arthur looked around, but everyone else was blocked from view by the enormous planes. "What the hell," he agreed, and brought his paint pot over to Gilbert. "How do we do this?"

"Kesesese! All right. Paint my clothes with stripes. Do the white first, since that's what's in your pot. When you're done with me, I'll paint yours black and white!"

Arthur started painting Gilbert as requested. "Hard to paint stripes on fabric."

"Whatever, just paint big blobs of black and white, then."

"All right, but I don't want black and white. I want to be patriotic. Paint me in red, white and blue."

"I don't care! Keep painting; I'll paint you pink and green if you want."

"Wanker."

…

"The planes look great, boys," I told them, though to be fair, the ones Baldrick had worked on were dirty already! How the hell does the little sod manage that? "Gilbert! Kirkland! What the hell happened to your clothes?"

Everyone turned to look at them.

"Kesesese! No problem; we were just having a little fun with the leftover paint."

"That's right," Kirkland agreed.

"Well, whatever you like. We're all done; let's head into town. Your pants dry?" I asked them.

"Awesomely dry, look!" Gilbert patted Arthur's arse, making him flinch, and I laughed.

"Good on you, Beilschmidt. Into the car, boys. Gotta find a new girlfriend or ten! Woof!"

"Woof!" they all replied in unison, even Kirkland.

…

"Psst! Slackie!" I hissed into the trench. Maybe he was asleep?

Nope. I shouldn't have worried. He was taking maximum advantage of his alone time, staying up late to read. "What are you doing?" he sneered, setting the book aside.

"Come give me a hand. They're all drunk." Gilbert pushed past us with a halfhearted salute and stumbled to a bunk, collapsing. "I mean, they're all passed out, except Beilschmidt."

Blackadder looked over at the albino. "No bets on him." He sighed. "Where are they?"

"Back of my bloody limo. Come on. You can't expect I'd ask poor Bobbie to help me with these boozers?" We sneaked out in the dark and managed to manhandle Kirkland and George into the bunker while Parkhurst looked on with her cheeky grin.

Then we went back to the car and scowled at the snoozy Baldrick. "I'm not touching him," I announced.

"Well, I'm certainly not going to do it!"

"Slackbladder, you're a big girl's blouse."

"And you're a swollen-headed git. Pick him up. It was your bloody idea to get him out of the trench and into a bar."

Heh. "All right. Give me your coat."

Blackie didn't understand, but he took off his coat and handed it to me. Heh heh. I wrapped it around Baldrick's inert form and dragged him out of the car. Since it was night, Blackadder couldn't shout at me like he wanted to. Ha, his face was hilarious.

"You _bloody bastard!_" he hissed, but I just laughed and hoisted the dead weight of the grubby private over my shoulder, wrapped in Blackadder's beautiful coat.

…


	4. I Love Being a Bastard

**I Love Being a Bastard.**

Groans, groans and more groans came from the bunks. Blackadder sat up and beamed evilly at his hung-over men, pulling a short, stout stick from under his bunk and whacking the wall with it. "Up you get, me lads, come on, rise and shine, time to fight a war! You think Jerry's going out and getting drunk every night? No, sir! Wake up!" He hit the wall a few more times, and then hit the supine Baldrick, cackling with the sheer pleasure of being a thorough, and incidentally _not hung over_, bastard.

Groans, groans and more groans. "Sod off," Blackadder heard from Kirkland's bunk, but he decided to ignore this in favor of berating the annoying albino.

"Get up, Beilschmidt. What happened? Can't take your drink like a man?"

But to the captain's amazement, Beilschmidt practically leaped out of his bunk, grinning, and stretched as tall as he could under the confining ceiling. "Good morning, Captain! Fine day, is it? What's on the breakfast menu? Kippers? Tea? Triple fried egg butty with chili sauce and chutney?"

"_Sod off!_" Kirkland yelled, throwing a pillow at his mate, who fielded it and threw it back.

"Artie, if you're awake enough to throw pillows, you're awake enough to be awake."

"Wanker."

"No, no, Eyebrows, the albino monstrosity is absolutely correct. Shake a tail feather, lad, and get down from that bloody bunk."

Kirkland's formidable eyebrows, over intensely bloodshot eyes, peeked over the top of his pillow. "You what?"

Meanwhile, George and Baldrick were still groaning. Blackadder decided to focus on Beilschmidt, the only one capable of holding a conversation. "Beilschmidt, with all the excitement yesterday, we forgot about your hundred pushups. Perhaps you thought I'd forgotten entirely?" He smirked at the tall young man, who was now doing arm curls with the telephone receiver.

"Not at all, not at all. I'm happy to do them, if you think it will help," he replied absently.

Blackadder was intrigued. Either this guy was some kind of genetically-altered supersoldier, or he was an idiot. "I'm guessing the latter," he mumbled to himself, incidentally hitting Baldrick with the stick.

"Sorry, Cap, didn't catch that?"

"Never mind! Forget about the bloody hundred pushups!"

Groans and more groans.

Kirkland sat up in his bunk. "You should make him do them, Captain." He rubbed his red eyes.

But Blackadder was distracted by the paint all over his new sergeant's clothing. "What the devil? You must be the worst painter since Rembrandt van Percy daubed green paint on a used handkerchief and dubbed it 'the Shroud of Nursie.' You and the albino both. What happened? Let me guess. Bloody Squadron Commander Lord bloody Flashheart threw paint on you, because you ruined his planes."

"Kesesese! No."

But that was all the response the captain could get from these annoying gits. "Fine, fine. Get up, clean up, change clothes."

"What? Why?" Kirkland asked.

"Why, _sir_?" Blackadder corrected him.

"Oh, you don't have to call me sir, Captain! You outrank me!" Kirkland bared his teeth in what must have been meant as a cheeky grin but came across more like an insane tiger.

"_Eyebrows_, if you don't get out of that bloody bunk right now I'm going to make _you_ do the hundred pushups, while Beilschmidt sits on your back!"

Kirkland was out of the bunk and saluting smartly before Blackadder had finished thundering out that sentence, though he was also swaying a little, and grimacing.

"That's better. Now, go get cleaned up; you reek of drink." The two newcomers grabbed their gear and headed to wash up.

"And as for you two!" Blackadder hit Baldrick again with the stick. "Disgraceful." His eye twitched as he realized Baldrick was still wrapped in _his coat!_ Damn Flashheart. That coat was only good as a floor mat, now. Maybe not even that. Maybe a cover for the latrine.

Baldrick just groaned again, but George managed to rouse himself enough to say, "Oh, but Captain…" before falling back onto the bed.

Blackadder hit Baldrick with the stick again. "George, just how much did you drink last night?"

Baldrick moaned; George rolled onto his back and croaked out, "Only six or seven…ohhh…"

"Six drinks? What a bunch of bloody lightweights."

Baldrick finally managed to speak, though it came out more like a death rattle. "_Bottles_."

"Shut up, Baldrick; I'm not talking to you." Blackadder whacked him. "There were five of you! Even if bloody Flash didn't drink with you, six bottles amongst four men is laughable." Beilschmidt and Kirkland came back in time to hear this.

"Six bottles each, Cap," Beilschmidt grinned. "Although I had seven." He flung his towel onto his bunk and stretched again.

"I had eight," Kirkland pointed out. He looked a little more human now that he'd washed up. He sat on Beilschmidt's bunk and the albino joined him.

"Well, kesesese, yeah, you're an awesome drinker, Artie, but at least I was able to get to my bunk by myself!"

Blackadder hit Baldrick with the stick again. "Enough of all this." He turned back to the two reclining men. "Get up and out of the bunks."

"Captain, with all due respect," George groaned, "we're in the middle of a war. I'd just as soon Jerry shot me right now, in this bunk, instead of having to get up and act like a live human being!" He shook his head and moaned in pain.

"I'll do worse than shoot you, George; I'll throw you into a bunk with Baldrick!" He punctuated this with a whack to Baldrick; George shot up immediately and sat on the edge of his bunk, blinking owlishly, contorting his face with rubbery stretches.

"Captain," Baldrick wheezed, "please stop hitting me…"

"Sorry, can't hear you, Balders, speak up!" _Whack._

Meanwhile, Kirkland and Beilschmidt were watching this little trenchside theatre with interest. "Can I have a go, Captain?" Beilschmidt asked, holding out his hand for the stick.

"No, no, no, can't have privates whacking each other," he mused, and both his new boys started sniggering. "All right, all right, all right, you sophomoric gits. Shut it, the pair of you, and let's get busy. Lift Baldrick out of that bed."

Neither of them moved. Kirkland raised an eyebrow, thoroughly distracting Blackadder again. "Aah, will you two stop staring at me! Get to work."

"Sir, I…" Beilschmidt began doubtfully, looking at Baldrick.

"I'm too sick to move," Kirkland abruptly decided, groaning again and flopping back onto the bunk.

"Kesesese!"

But by now Baldrick had managed to lever himself up somewhat. "Urgh, Captain, sir, I think I'm going to be – " He leaped up and ran out into the trench; the men inside heard the disgusting sounds of gagging, which, from Baldrick, somehow sounded even worse than they would have done from anyone else.

"Oh, dear God," Blackadder moaned. "This is the absolute last time I let that git Flashheart get you all drunk and dump you back on me!"

"Hah," George croaked out. "Next time you can come with us."

Blackadder gave him a death glare, and then the telephone rang. A pale, stumbling Baldrick reentered the bunker and fell onto his bunk as the captain answered the phone.

"Blackadder here…oh, hello, Darling, how are you?...Don't be such a big girl's blouse, Darling…Yes, of course they are! Do you think I'm running a trench, or a nursing home?...Well, yes, they were, but they're all fine now. What's the big blowhard want _this_ time?"

The captain nodded, trying to pace, absently banging the stick on Baldrick's head each time he passed the bunk. "_All_ of us? Darling, you have got to be joking…Did he come up with this, or did _you_, you malicious git?...Fine, fine. Do we have any specific orders?...Yes, I'll bring George and we'll be over as soon as we can. Goodbye, Darling," he crooned artificially, before slamming the phone down and evoking a few more groans.

"Well, ladies, the esteemed General Melchett has another little duty for us today, which will unfortunately result once again in the postponement of Beilschmidt's demonstration of his athletic prowess. I'm not too certain of the details, but George and I have to go to get the information from Darling. The rest of you stay put. George, get up and get washed up. You know the old walrus will have my guts for garters if you go in there looking and smelling like that."

"Aye, aye, Cap," the young man said, stumbling out of the small room.

"The rest of you, have a kip, whatever. Just don't get that coat anywhere near my things!" Blackadder barked, gesturing towards his former coat and incidentally poking Baldrick in the forehead with the stick. "I'm heading to the station. Please send George over when he's clean; I'll wait for him there. _Hurry it up, Lieutenant!_" he called out before striding out into the trench.

The men inside heard a squelchy footstep, quickly followed by a muttered "Bloody _hell_."

…

Back in the bunker: "Right, you chaps, well, right, we have our orders from the top." Blackadder snorted audibly.

"Sir?" Kirkland asked respectfully. He was sitting next to George this time. Baldrick was still persona non grata in the corner, although he'd cleaned up the mess outside.

But Blackadder was distracted by something. "Baldrick, where the ruddy hell is my _coat?_"

"Oh. Er. I, well, I used it to mop up the sick outside, sir."

Blackadder placed a palm against the throbbing vein in his temple. "Where is it _now_?"

"Ah, well, it was pretty messed up, sir, so I took it to the quartermaster to show it ruined and get a new one."

"That's surprisingly decent of you, Baldrick. Where's the new one?" Everyone in the bunker looked around and noticed an absence of new coat.

"I, er, I traded it for a turnip, sir."

"You what?" everyone chorused.

Baldrick triumphantly held up a turnip. "We can make turnip tea to drink while we watch G-g-gilbert do his pushups!"

As one man, they groaned; both Blackadder and Kirkland put their heads in their hands. George beamed at the filthy private. "I didn't know you knew how to make turnip tea, Balders!"

"Well, I don't. I was hoping someone else did."

A silence reigned in the bunker.

"Enough, enough, enough of all this!" Blackadder smacked the handful of papers down onto the tiny table. "Listen, you lot. Melchett wants you to bust into Jerry's stables and set free all their horses."

A further silence reigned, until Beilschmidt cleared his throat. "He…_what?_"

"You heard me," the captain sighed. "Some days I wonder if it's worth getting up in the morning to fight this bloody war. Apparently, couriers have been seen coming and going more often than before, and High Command believes that if we can hobble their transport – so to speak – it will bring down the German army machine from within." He rolled his eyes. "We have to do it tonight, under cover of darkness."

"No kidding," George agreed brightly. "Fat lot of good it'd do us to go creeping over there in broad daylight!"

"Shut up, George."

"Aye, sir." George saluted with a grin.

"Do we get to wear awesome camouflage?"

"Absolutely not. Standard issue uniform. If we're captured I don't want to be associated with a bunch of gits dressed up like bloody Morris dancers!"

Baldrick raised his filthy hand. "Are – _are_ we likely to get captured, Captain?" he asked, in a tiny, squeaky voice.

"If we are, I'd just as soon get drunk before we go, so I don't notice the torture," Kirkland asserted.

"Kesesese!"

"Shut it. All of you. Now, Baldrick, if you want to get captured, that's your own bloody business. Do you all understand?"

Four enlisted heads nodded vigorously, and then Baldrick's slowly changed to shaking a weak "no."

"What's the problem, Baldrick?" Blackadder sighed, raising his eyes heavenward for strength.

"What if we don't want to get captured? _I_ don't want to get captured!"

"Listen, Balders," Beilschmidt said calmly. "Nobody's going to get captured. All right? Just listen to the captain and do what he says."

Huh. If Baldrick actually adhered to that, maybe he'd let Beilschmidt off the pushups detail.

Baldrick nodded.

"Right!" Blackadder barked. "We don't leave until it's dark. Now, I myself will not be accompanying you."

"What?" Kirkland and George yelped simultaneously.

"That's right. Melchett is coming here – in his ruddy _Rolls-Royce armored transport_, the bloody blubber-brained bastard – and he and I will be waiting in the platoon barracks for you to succeed."

"Bollocks," Kirkland breathed weakly. Beilschmidt and George nodded in agreement.

"Gear up. All you need are knives to cut the ropes. Halters. Whatever the things are called. Sneak in, cut the ropes, set fire to the bloody place if you want, and then get out sharpish. Understood? Just make sure the horses leave, too."

"Right," Kirkland, the farm boy, said. "No problem at all. Any chance of a drink?"

"Is that _all_ you think about?" Blackadder exploded. "You're practically still hung over from yesterday!"

"Takes the edge off a man's fear, when he's confronting the enemy," Eyebrows pointed out with a saucy grin.

"All right, all right, all right," Blackadder agreed with a snarl. "There's a bottle of brandy under George's bunk. Get it out, Baldrick, and we can all share a nip before you go running into certain death. Oh, did I say 'certain death'? I meant 'the guaranteed success of your nocturnal mission.'"

"Kesesese," Beilschmidt sniggered quietly.

Blackadder ignored him and shared out the brandy. "Sir," George hiccupped, passing the bottle to Kirkland, "why are you giving away my brandy so freely?"

"Lieutenant, if things go as planned tonight, Melchett will buy you a new bottle of brandy."

"And if they don't go as planned?" George asked brightly.

"I'll buy a bottle and drink it in your memory. Cheers."

…

_Stay tuned. _

_Gilbert's been hanging out with Listy and Rimsie a bit too often, methinks._


	5. High Spirits

**High Spirits.**

Blackadder and Melchett wandered off into the darkness, in the direction of the barracks. "Come on," George, as ranking soldier, motioned. He picked his way along with mock stealth; the other three followed.

"It's really dark," Gilbert pointed out. "What if we lose our way?"

"I have a map," George hissed.

"Oh, _really_?" Arthur asked him sarcastically. "Where are we? Show me on the map."

George pulled it out and unfolded it before realizing it was too dark to read a map.

"There, you see?" Arthur went on. "What good is a bloody map going to do?"

"You really do sound just like Captain Blackadder!"

"Shut up about that!"

Baldrick had gone ahead a few paces and returned. "Looks like it's just up ahead. Maybe a hundred paces."

"Well!" George whispered. "That ought to be something quite easy, then. Eh, lads? Let's go loose some horses!" He and Baldrick scampered into the gloom. Gilbert began to follow, but Arthur restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

"What? Come on, Artie, not awesome, we'll lose them in the dark." He tried to pull Arthur along, but the blond resisted.

"Listen, I just had a brilliant idea!"

"You're not going to make me go AWOL again. I still have the bruises from last time."

"No, no, git. Listen. Nobody will ever find out." Arthur pulled Gilbert's ear down to his mouth and whispered a daring plan.

"You must be joking."

"No! Melchett and Blackadder are in the barracks, right? George and Baldrick will be able to handle the horses, no problem."

Here, they spent a moment considering this, before Arthur cleared his throat and went on, "Well, anyway, so we can do it! Come on, we can take the bloody armored car, get there, and be back before those gits are done setting the horses free. They're so dopey they probably won't even notice."

"Well…all right," Gilbert conceded. "But we have to wear our awesome new camouflage."

"Yes, yes, if that's what it takes, that's fine. Come on, let's get back and get changed. Hurry!"

…

"Let me handle this," Gilbert said. "You'll sound too eager, and give the game away."

"Fine, wanker. Just hurry." Arthur jittered where he stood.

They wandered up to a soldier smoking near a dark lantern. "Hello, mate, this General Melchett's car?" Gilbert asked easily, indicating the Rolls.

"Yeah, why?" The man's Italian accent was heavy.

"Got to pick him up. Keys in it?" Gilbert and Arthur now moved confidently to get into the imposing vehicle.

"Yes, yes, the fucking keys are in it, dammit. Are you sure you're supposed to be taking it?" He peered at them in the dark.

"Listen, forget you saw us," Arthur blurted out. "We'll bring back a bottle for you. _Ow."_ (This as Gilbert smacked him.)

"Chigi! Bring back a _woman_ for me, bastard. I get all the drink I want, whenever I want it."

"Seriously?" Arthur perked up, but Gilbert pinched him to shut him up. "Ow."

"Awesome, thanks," the albino said, turning the key in the ignition.

"No problem. I'm not even supposed to be on duty tonight; I don't give a damn. They didn't even make me sign in. The bastards want to pin this on me, they're going to have a tough time with it."

Gilbert backed the car out of the parking area. "Thanks again, mate! If we find you a woman, we'll bring her back!"

"Cheh. I'll believe that when I see it."

The albino floored it, and he and Arthur sped off into the dark distance.

…

"We should have made friends with that guy," Arthur said. "All the drink he wants, whenever he wants it!"

"Shh! Take him a bottle, if you want to be friends with him. I bet he wouldn't say no. Now come on! We can get in through one of the long windows."

"Hey! What about that wanker Darling? He's not on the bloody horse mission."

"Ah, I can deal with Darling," Gilbert bragged. "Step lively."

Arthur had been right; the dazzle camouflage on their uniforms (such as it was) did almost nothing to conceal them as they stealthily approached Melchett's headquarters. No lights were on in the manse. Gilbert tiptoed to a French window and pushed it; it swung open easily. They held their breath, waiting for alarms, but nothing happened. "What an idiot," Gilbert said, stepping through the aperture and reaching a hand back to help Arthur in.

"Ah, there it is," the blond said immediately, moving towards the imposing drinks cabinet.

"How the hell did you see it in the dark?" Gilbert hissed, trying to follow.

"Like a homing beacon to me." Arthur's voice was gleeful as he fiddled with the catches. "Turn on the light, will you, git?" Aha. He found a bottle, open, on top of the cabinet, and drank some.

"Sure, let me find it." Gilbert stumbled about noisily. "Hey! Don't drink it all!"

"Mm, rum," Arthur answered with a little belch. "Hurry up with that light. I want to see what else we have here."

Gilbert finally turned on the light. Arthur held the rum bottle in one hand while he drank from a brandy bottle in the other. "Ah, Gilbert, this was a brilliant idea," he said happily, wiping his lips with the back of his painted sleeve. "Even if I have to say so myself."

"Give me an awesome bottle."

Arthur handed him the rum, which was the emptier of the two bottles. "Look at this! Gin! Cognac! _Absinthe!_ Dear Lord, let me become a general someday," he prayed, reaching for the gin.

"No need, if you can raid their liquor cabinets this easily." Gilbert sat on the floor. "Bring down a couple bottles and sit."

"Sure. Hold on." Arthur handed down the gin, the cognac, the half-empty brandy bottle, and some vodka.

"What about the absinthe?"

"Too much faff, all those sugar cubes, and it's disgusting to drink it straight. Drink the drinks." He took the brandy bottle back; Gilbert opened the vodka, and they began to drink.

…

An hour later there were several empty bottles on the floor. Arthur had taken off his painted shirt and thrown it aside; Gilbert, not as overheated, had simply opened his. As usual, Arthur was beginning to get a little maudlin.

"Oh, Gilbert," he hiccupped, swaying to lean against his mate, "why do we have to be in this bloody war? Why can't I go home and work on the farm?"

But Gilbert, slightly more sober, had heard this talk many times over the last two years. "You don't like to work on the farm," he said, then focusing on his more immediate need: "Wish we had a corkscrew." He looked around, but couldn't get up to check the cabinet, because Arthur was slumped against him, now hugging him.

"But the farm is so much more peaceful…"

"But your brothers drive you insane," Gilbert countered, as he always did. Damn it, why didn't Melchett keep a corkscrew down here on the floor? He'd found a bottle of _Chateau Lafite!_

"My brothers drive me insane," Arthur agreed, wiping tears from his eyes. "I might as well go off and join the war to get away from them."

Gilbert patted him on the shoulder. "Good idea, my friend. Awesome idea." He frowned at the wine bottle in his hand. "Damn this Chateau Lafite."

Both men froze at the sound of a footfall outside the room. "Bollocks! I thought that blubber-brained idiot was still at the barracks with Blackadder! How did he get back here without his car? That damn Italian must have given us away!" Arthur suddenly seemed much more sober, and bloody annoyed. He sat up straight and hastily pulled his discarded shirt up around his shoulders.

Gilbert was merely worried that they'd get caught. "Don't talk or move. Maybe he'll go past."

"Hah, not a snowball's chance in hell," Arthur snarled, and indeed, the door began to open.

"Maybe he can get me a corkscrew," Gilbert hissed, as Captain Darling appeared in the doorway.

"What's all this?" Darling's voice was loaded with sarcasm. "Bloody Blackadder's spanking new boys, raiding General Melchett's drinks cabinet? Well, well, well." He crossed the room and stood before them, arms folded, legs slightly spread, grinning maliciously.

"Would you like to join us, Captain?" Arthur asked, with a surprisingly sober and friendly tone. Gilbert hastily arranged his face into a pleasing smile.

"Especially if you can reach me a corkscrew," he added, and Arthur elbowed him. "Ow."

"Now why on earth would I want to do that?" Darling asked with mock curiosity. "Why shouldn't I just turn you over to the General?"

"Because you're a nice guy?" Gilbert tried.

Darling shook his head with a smirk.

"Because you awesomely want to drink with us?"

A further shake of the head.

Arthur grinned, this time. "Because you'll love to hold this over Blackadder's head, when he finds out about it!"

Darling nodded, fetching the corkscrew, and sat on the floor near them. "Give me the bottle, Weilschmidt."

_"Beilschmidt!"_

…

"Where's my blasted vehicle?" Melchett bawled at the Italian guard.

"Vehicle, sir?" The man lit a cigarette. "Which vehicle is that?"

Blackadder stood astounded as the insolent guard bantered with Melchett, ultimately convincing the old walrus-brain that there had been no vehicle here for the last several hours, despite the fact that Blackadder, at least, knew otherwise.

"Blast it all! All right, Blackadder, let's go back to your bunker and see how your men have fared. That stampede we heard earlier seems a guarantee of success."

Blackadder led the way, hearing the guard mutter "Bastards" behind them, ignoring it.

George and Baldrick were sitting on their bunks, looking worried. "Well, lads? How did the horsey mission go?"

But before either of them could answer Melchett's question, Blackadder asked, "And where are those other gits?"

George looked abashed and scratched his head theatrically. "Well, sir, we, uh, we don't really know."

"Wait a minute, Blackadder; that can wait. I _want_ to _hear_ about the _mission!"_ Melchett whacked his leg with his riding crop.

"Oh, no problems at all, sirs," George told them, belatedly standing up and saluting. "No problems at all. The horses all seemed quite eager to leave the stables, once we'd cut the ropes."

"Probably got a whiff of Baldrick," Blackadder muttered. Baldrick looked at him reproachfully, but the other two ignored this.

"So all Jerry's mounts have gone? Brilliant. You boys did a marvelous job."

"Sir, there's still the matter of my missing men," Blackadder pointed out.

"Are you sure they're missing, Blackadder? You're sure they're not around here somewhere?" Melchett cheekily tapped the captain on the head with his riding crop. "You didn't spend much time looking."

"George? Baldrick? Have you, ahem, have you _thoroughly searched_ this bunker?" Blackadder rolled his eyes at the sheer idiocy of the question.

"I could check again, Captain," the private offered nervously. "I didn't look under the mattresses?"

"Well? Hop to it, little man," Melchett bellowed. "Blast it all," he went on, as Baldrick and George began lifting the mattresses, darting confused looks at the general, "no car, no men…? I'm going back to the barracks to see if I can cadge some drinks off the men there. Come get me when you've got all this sorted, Blackadder." He tapped the captain on the head once more and strode out into the darkness.

"Bloody hell," Blackadder moaned, sinking onto his bunk. "Where the devil do you suppose they went? Were they with you on the mission?"

"I, ah, I don't think so, sir."

"You 'don't think so,' George? Why don't you think so?"

"Well, sir, because when I said, 'Are you lads ready?' the only one who answered me was Private Baldrick!"

"They're not under the mattresses, sir," Baldrick announced, having carried on with this mini-mission for the last ten minutes.

"Blast. Where could they be?"

Baldrick raised a hand like a schoolchild. "Sir, perhaps Squadron Commander F-f-f-flashheart came and took them away for something? You know he's such very good friends with G-gilbert."

"Right. Bloody Flash swoops in secretly at night, in the _dark,_ and abducts half my men in the middle of a mission." Blackadder shook his head. "Try to use that turnip you call a brain, Baldrick."

But then he stopped to think again, and spoke much more slowly, considering. "You might have something there, though. That's the kind of annoying thing that self-centered git would do, _just_ to get my goat. Hand me the telephone." Baldrick handed him the telephone; he gingerly held the receiver between thumb and forefinger. "Squadron Commander the Lord Flashheart, please," he gritted out to the operator, drumming his fingers on his leg. "Yes, you narcissistic moron, it's me. _Blackadder!_ No, we're missing a few men, Beilschmidt and his mate Kirkland, just wondering whether you'd seen fit to spirit them away for some illegal carousing at that watering hole you dragged them to yesterday…No? Well, thank you _so much_. If you run across them, do give me a call, won't you?" he asked sweetly, before hanging up with a thump. "Git. No," he told his men. "Flashheart has no idea."

"Where could they be? Perhaps Jerry captured them?" George seemed quite concerned.

"I've really no idea. I don't even know where to begin looking."

"Sir," Baldrick pointed out, "their uniforms are here." He pointed to the uniforms on the bed.

"So, what…? They're running around naked in No-Man's Land?" Blackadder was astonished. "What kind of freaks did Melchett saddle me with this time?"

But George had stood up to rummage through Gilbert's duffel. "Sir, remember their painty clothes? Gilbert's are missing."

The captain paced a bit more, crashing into George. "So he, or they, changed into their painted clothing? It's probably a safe bet that Kirkland did it too, since their clean uniforms are both here. So. They started out on the mission. Right? Right, because I was there."

Baldrick and George both nodded vigorously.

"But they apparently never made it as far as the stables."

George and Baldrick shook their heads.

"So they must have gone somewhere else."

"Well, yes, Cap. They must have come back here and changed into their painty clothes, for some reason," George noted. "If Jerry had caught them, their painty clothes would be here and not their clean ones."

"Surprisingly, a very valid point indeed." Blackadder continued to try to pace. "What other clues might we have? Where the hell could they have gone? The only place around here is the platoon barracks and the train station. If they got on a train, then they're bloody AWOL, and I'll have them shot."

"Hello, boys!" Flashheart bounded into the bunker. "Find 'em yet, Slackie?" He did a pelvic thrust at Blackadder, who grimaced; George and Baldrick snapped to attention and saluted Flashheart. He ignored them.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Hey! My friend Gilbert's gone missing? I'm going to help you find him before the brass does. Melchett gets wind of that, he might – he might – well, you know old Melchie, he won't have the brains to do anything, but that wet adjutant of his – Captain Loverboy –"

"– Darling –"

"– Yes, that's the one, he'll make your life a living hell, and Gilbert's, too, I dare say. Now, come on, chaps, let's figure it out."

George raised a hand. "Did the general say his car was missing?"

"Yes, so we can't take his car to go look," Blackadder replied wearily. "Damn it all."

"No, sir, no, sir, _no!_ I mean, if his car is missing, maybe Gilbert and Kirkland took it?"

"What? Why the devil would they do that? That's the act of a lunatic, pinching a general's armored car." And then Blackadder answered himself. "But they are lunatics, aren't they. And they'd stand a better chance pinching his car than anyone else's. There's always a chance the idiot wouldn't notice it's missing."

"Now, calm yourself, Slackbladder. Why would they steal Melchie's car? Where would they go?"

"Drinking," George and Baldrick replied in unison, along with Flashheart, who answered his own question.

"Drinking?" Blackadder exploded. "They spent all last night drinking!"

"Sir, you really don't understand how hard Kirkland can drink. That man, he's like a sponge." Baldrick nodded feverishly.

"No, that can't be right." Blackadder tried to pace, but Flashheart was in the way, preening his mustache. The captain gave him an irritable look and returned to sit on his bunk. "You said you all had seven bottles; the albino monstrosity had eight, and Kirkland had nine. Nine bottles is a fairly large quantity of wine, it's true, but I've seen some men handle that. But they don't up and go out to do it again the very next day!"

"Ah, but Slackie, you didn't have to pay the bar bill," Flash explained. "These boys, and Beilschmidt, they were drinking wine, but Kirkland went straight for the rum."

"Nine _bottles_ of _rum?_" If Blackadder hadn't already been sitting down, he would have sat down in shock. He whistled in disbelief.

"Bloody expensive bar tab, too, let me tell you," Flashheart laughed. "That boy has the balls to be a Twenty Minuter, except that he's too inept to fly a plane." He pulled out a small hand mirror from his overcoat pocket, grinning and winking at his reflection.

"Well," the captain theorized, "if they stole – er – borrowed General Melchett's armored car, and went to go drink, where would they go? They weren't at the barracks; the old goat and I were there the entire time."

"Beilschmidt didn't have any money, I know," George put in. "So they probably didn't go to one of the bars in town, unless they were meeting up with some mate."

"I wonder if that ruddy Italian bastard knows?"

"Who?"

"Git supposed to be guarding Melchett's car. When we got there, the car was gone, and the idiot soldier just said there hadn't been a vehicle there for hours."

"Makes sense, makes sense, Blackie, if Gilbert took it. Where is this bloke?"

"Over by the barracks, you ignoramus! Where else?" Blackadder stood up and gave Flashheart his best death glare, but Flash just grinned and pinched his cheek.

"Sir?" Baldrick piped up. "I have a cunning plan."

"No doubt, Baldrick, no doubt. What's it entail this time?"

"We can all go ride around in Lord Flashheart's car until we find them. Stopping at every pub and whatnot on the way."

Blackadder's expression turned to one of menacing glee. "Not very cunning, Balders, but a good idea nonetheless. You can sit in the front seat with Flash, and George and I will sit in the back." He smirked at Flashheart. Getting eau de Baldrick all over the inside of his fancy automobile would go a long way towards paying the git back for ruining his _coat_.

"Eh, I see what you're up to, Slackie. Come on, boys. It's as good a start as anything. Just leave the windows open. I can always get a new car tomorrow if I have to."

Blackadder smacked himself in the forehead, but they all exited the bunker together.

…

"No idea, sir," the Italian said.

"What, _none?_"

"Right." The man took a drag of his cigarette.

"Some help you are," Blackadder sneered, walking away.

"Bastard," he heard again, and again chose to ignore it.

…

Once in the car, which was not being driven by the cheeky Parkhurst tonight, but by Flash himself, the four men put their minds to locating their colleagues. Blackadder had relegated Baldrick to the back seat.

"You know," Blackadder realized, "there would be a certain poetic justice in stealing Melchett's car in order to go back to Melchett's office and drink Melchett's liquor. Are they poetic enough to try that? Do they even know he has a drinks cabinet?"

"Every general has a drinks cabinet, Slackbladder."

George agreed. "Plus, stealing from the general means they wouldn't have to pay for the booze."

Flash laughed. "I think you may actually have had a smart idea, Blackie. Let's start there, anyway. Where's the old blowhard now?"

Blackadder explained.

"Good, then we won't run into him, and if they're there, they should be safe from him. Woof!" Flash put the pedal to the metal.

"Captain Darling might be there." Baldrick sounded a little worried.

"I can deal with Darling. Don't worry your pointy little head about it."

"Yessir, Captain Blackadder, sir."

…

Lights were blazing in the general's headquarters when Flashheart's car pulled up. "Looks like we maybe struck pay dirt?" the squadron commander asked.

"There's a window open!" Baldrick announced. "_Wide_ open!"

"Right, well, we may as well go in through the window. We'll either find Beilschmidt and Kirkland drinking, or Darling working, or Jerry on a spy mission, in which case we shoot them all and leg it." Blackadder paused. "Though I have to admit there would be a certain joy in shooting Darling. Or even those other two idiots."

Together the four rescuers crept up to the lighted window and peeked inside.

Flashheart began whooping with laughter. "There's your lads, Slackie!"

The captain sighed. Yes, indeed, there were his lads. Beilschmidt was slumped against the drinks cabinet, passed out, a bottle in his hand. Kirkland was slumped against Beilschmidt, also passed out, snoring. And in front of them, lying inert on his back with his head pillowed on an empty bottle, was a shirtless Kevin Darling, one of Melchett's pipes smoldering gently in his hand.

Blackadder drew a deep breath. "Well, this is easy enough. Come on, lads, let's haul these two back to Flash's car and get out of here."

"Don't touch Gilbert," Flashheart cautioned Baldrick. So George and the dirty private picked up Kirkland; Flashheart and Blackadder grabbed Gilbert. They maneuvered their way out to the car, shoving the men inside any old way.

"Wait a moment," Blackadder whispered, slipping back inside. He returned in less than a minute, dusting his hands together and grinning with almost maniacal glee. "Right, Flash, hit it."

"Back to the bunker! Woof!" Flashheart roared, pressing the accelerator.

"_Woof!_"

…

General Melchett was infuriated. Other than the success of the horse mission, tonight had been a _disaster!_ Losing his car, arguing with the Italian, losing some men, finding that the men had been in the bunker after all, and then finding his car? He was decidedly glad to be back at HQ and parked his car, jerking angrily on the emergency brake.

"What's all this?" he asked himself, seeing the lights on. "Jerry making a midnight spy raid? Bloody inept of him, leaving all the lights on that way." He unlocked the front door of the manse, slipping inside with his service revolver drawn, following the light into his office.

The general's eyes widened as he looked at the carnage. Twelve empty bottles stood in a circle on the floor; here a corkscrew, there an open bottle of olives, draining onto the carpet. And in the center of it all, like the hands of a big clock at six p.m., Captain Kevin Darling, shirtless, comatose, snoring, and holding the general's favorite pipe.

"_Darliiiing_!"

…

_The Italians were the allies of England in WWI, so I gave Romano a little cameo._

_I did a painting of drunk!Gilbert and drunk!Arthur; it's on my dA account (blooddarksun) under the title "Damn That Chateau Lafite."_


	6. Goodbyeee

**Goodbyeee.**

"Gentlemen, our long wait is nearly at an end. Tomorrow morning, General 'Insanity' Melchett invites you to a mass slaughter. We're going over the top." Blackadder paced in the dugout, shoving Baldrick out of the way; the private fell onto a bunk.

Arthur watched from his top bunk as George exploded in a boundless display of enthusiasm. "You what?" he asked tiredly, when the lieutenant had stopped.

"So, it's really happening." Bloody Beilschmidt sounded thoughtful. "Tomorrow morning."

Nobody else spoke. Blackadder sat on a bunk and put his head in his hands. "I've got it!" the captain then said. "I'll do what we did in the Sudan. I'll put a pair of underpants on my head, stick two pencils up my nose, and they'll declare me insane and send me back home long before the bloody push tomorrow."

"My uncle tried that, back at the beginning of this war," Gilbert said cheerfully.

"What happened? Did he get sent home?" Blackadder had an eager look on his face as he rose, presumably to look for underpants that were clean enough to put on his head.

"Shot for insubordination," Gilbert laughed. "But don't worry. Melchett wasn't his commanding officer."

"I should say not!" Blackadder rummaged in his trunk. "That blubber-brain is dafter than a bagful of cows." He found a pair of underpants and two pencils. "Give Melchett a call, Baldrick. Tell him I'm barking."

Baldrick moved to make the call, and Arthur reluctantly decided to get up and wash up for the day.

…

Blackadder's plan backfired magnificently. The next morning they had nothing to do but sit around and mope. Baldrick and George went out in the trench to paint a picture (Arthur didn't even bother to ask), and Blackadder had to head to Melchett's office for some late-breaking news. This left Arthur alone with the blasted albino. He sat next to Gilbert on the bunk.

"I suppose this is probably the end of all things, huh, Arthur?"

Arthur was amazed. Gilbert actually sounded thoughtful. "Most likely."

Neither of them spoke; the blond was thinking back on their long association. "Hey, git," he said quietly, nudging the albino. "Thanks for everything, you know?"

"You too." Gilbert squeezed his hand. "Been a long and difficult time."

"I really do wonder why we have to fight bloody wars. Some idiot with his empire-building schemes – " He leaned against Beilschmidt companionably. "And then we die."

"Well. We only die once."

"Blasted Blackadder had it right when he said it'd be just as sensible to stay home and shoot fifty thousand men a week." Arthur sighed. "Should we wear our fancy camo? Not like Jerry's actually going to miss, no matter what we wear."

"Sure, Arthur." Gilbert put an arm around his shoulders. "Let's go out with a flash."

The blond rolled his eyes. "Surprised that narcissistic git hasn't been around to gloat at us."

Just then the telephone rang; Gilbert got up to answer it. "Beilschmidt speaking…Hey, Flash! We were just talking about you!" His manner had instantly shot back to the annoying 'awesome' attitude. "Yeah? Yeah…well, we were just talking about this Big Push business, Artie and me…You what?" And then his manner sobered quite suddenly, Arthur was surprised to see. "Thanks, Flash," he said softly, "but that wouldn't be right. I – I'll take my chances…Yeah, I'm sure." He bounced back to annoyance. "Take care of yourself, you bastard. Kesesese!" Hanging up, all the exuberance left him, and he plopped back onto his bunk next to Arthur.

"'S that all about?" the blond asked, though he didn't really care.

"Flash offered to – ah, never mind." Beilschmidt put his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands, and stared across the bunker.

Arthur then understood. He waited until his voice was under control and then said, "Thanks, git," in a very quiet tone.

"We'll go down together, Artie. Come on, let's put on our gear." They rose and desultorily changed into their painty clothing.

Just as they finished, Blackadder burst in. "What's gotten into you?" Arthur asked him.

The captain didn't answer, just jerked his thumb over his shoulder with a grimace and a roll of the eyes. Presently Captain Darling came in, followed by George and Baldrick.

Arthur and Gilbert stood up too. The mood was somber as the men pondered the gravity of their upcoming orders, except for George, who was still erupting with the glee of the truly naïve. "We'll be sucking sausages in Berlin by teatime!"

"Yes, I hope the cafés are well-stocked," Blackadder sighed. "Everyone seems determined to eat out the moment they arrive."

No one spoke for a moment. After a deep breath George then confessed to fear, and Baldrick did too. Arthur and Gilbert both nodded without speaking, and Arthur felt the albino lean against him a little. If – if he had to die today – and Arthur was fairly certain that he did – he was glad to have a friend with him. He flashed a weak, sad smile at Beilschmidt.

Darling spoke a bit, and the rest of them sighed again.

In this gloomy silence it was perhaps no surprise that they all jumped when the call to arms came from outside the bunker.

Swallowing, Arthur followed the others out; they all stood in a line.

"The guns have stopped," Darling pointed out.

"D'you think the war's over?" Baldrick asked with glee.

"We made it through!" George cheered, and Darling relaxed in place. Even Arthur and Gilbert began to smile, just a little.

Blackadder, however, pointed out that the guns had stopped because the attack was about to begin. High Command didn't want to accidentally kill any of their own men.

Baldrick then piped up eagerly. "Sir, I have a cunning plan."

"As cunning as a fox who's just been appointed Professor of Cunning at Oxford University?"

"Yes, sir." The dirty private beamed at him.

But Blackadder simply sighed. "I'm afraid it's too late now, Balders. But it must have been better than my plan of being mad. Who'd notice one more madman around here?"

Someone blew a whistle. The men looked at each other somberly. "Good luck, everyone," Blackadder said.

Gilbert took Arthur's hand briefly before the sound of Blackadder's whistle pierced their ears. Each of them climbed the ladder, handguns drawn, and ran forward into the gunfire.

…

_12/4/13: I just reread the story and it all makes me happy except this last chapter, so I might rewrite the whole thing. Need to spend some time thinking about it, though. Perhaps by the end of the year._


	7. That Cunning Plan

**That Cunning Plan.**

"We did it!"

The face-down Arthur hissed and tried to subtly kick Baldrick, lying in the mud on his right-hand side. "Shut it, will you? If there are any Jerries left standing, they'll come over here and finish the job!" He slid his eyes towards Baldrick, whose griminess level had possibly improved by rolling in the dirt and getting covered in the blood of others.

"Oh, right." Baldrick deflated, lying on his back staring at the sky, but the grin remained on his face. At least Arthur thought so. Hard to tell with that little git.

From where Arthur lay, he could see both Gilbert and George. He tried to call out softly to each of them without attracting attention. "Gilbert?"

The albino's eyes flew open and he let out a _sotto voce_ "kesesese" before winking at Arthur. "I'm fine," the albino went on in a whisper. "Guess the painty clothes were lucky!"

"All okay here," George murmured in a surprisingly sober tone, trying to blink the blood and sweat out of his eyes without moving much otherwise.

"Where's Captain B?" Baldrick wondered.

"I'm right here, buffoon." The weary captain's voice piped up from behind Arthur.

"Kesesese! You okay, Cap?"

"Except for this idiotic chatter, everything's fine! Now shut up, all of you, or someone will – "

"Hello, chaps!" Darling called out in glee from somewhere behind Blackadder. Arthur could see his shadow as he bounded happily across the mounds of dead soldiers. "Isn't this –"

A rattle of gunfire interrupted him, and Captain Darling's inert body fell just inches from where they lay. Frozen in fear and disbelief for several minutes, Blackadder finally voiced everyone's feelings with the succinct "Git."

"Now I'm spattered with blood," Gilbert added sourly. "Kept myself clean right up until now."

"How much longer will we have to stay like this?" George tried to call this out without raising his voice.

"Nighttime, probably." Arthur slanted his eyes towards the sky. "So we have some cover."

Baldrick's weak response was a whined "Nighttime? What time is it now?"

Gilbert tilted his head back slowly and looked at the sun as well. "Nine-seventeen."

"You can tell the time _that accurately_ from the sun?" George's voice, filled with admiration, floated over to the supine Arthur, and he rolled his eyes.

"Nope! Dead guy near me's wearing a watch." Gilbert laughed a little.

"Well, let's all settle down, try to have a nap or whatever you like. Nighttime's a long way away." With that, Blackadder fell silent, and the rest eventually closed their eyes and slept.

…

"We're out of it!" George chortled, dancing around the bunker with Gilbert. "We're not in Berlin, but at least we're not dead!" Dried blood and mud flaked off their uniforms as they whirled around laughing and hugging each other.

Blackadder paced, trying to ignore the prancing soldiers. "Don't get so bloody celebratory," he warned them.

Baldrick's trusting little face turned up to his. "Why not? What do you mean?"

"Yes, all right, all right. Listen," Blackadder warned, and the other two stopped their cavorting to listen. "We're alive, and we're in the trench."

A chorus: "Yes!"

"So what the _bloody hell_ do we do now? We have no way to get _away_ from the trench, and even if we did, where would we go? We're still soldiers. We still have to serve."

Everyone stared at the seated captain, who by now was holding his head in his hands and groaning. "Er – sir – we don't _have_ to serve," Arthur pointed out quietly. Very quietly.

"Yeah! I mean, if they all think we're dead, then…" Gilbert left the sentence hanging.

Slowly, Blackadder's head rose from its dejected position, new hope gleaming in his eyes. "You're right. But we still don't have a way to get out of here, or a safe place to go."

Five brains (well, four) whirled in unison as George, Gilbert, Arthur and the captain tried to think of a way to escape this madness. "W-we could go to my family's farm," Arthur finally offered. "It's on Dartmoor." What he didn't need to explain was that Dartmoor was a lonely and empty place, where the five of them could probably stay safely hidden until the end of the war. "We just need to get across the Channel somehow."

"What about your family, though?" Gilbert asked this question nicely, and Arthur knew what he was getting at. The blond Brit didn't get along with much of his family. His mother was the only one who seemed to genuinely like him, and that was probably because he was more responsible than all his idiot brothers, who were too lazy to do a hand's turn around the farm.

He sighed as everyone else watched with hopeful anticipation. "Well. I can see three outcomes. One, they welcome us home because we're soldiers, we made it through, returning heroes and all that rubbish. If we're all willing to do some work around the farm then in that case I can't see a problem."

"What other outcomes?" Baldrick wondered eagerly. "I've never even seen a farm!"

"It sounds exciting," George added.

"Second outcome: they are angry about us descending on them _en masse_ and report us, in which case, messy court-martial and probably execution for desertion. They might also report us if there's some kind of reward for information about deserters."

No one responded to that, except Captain Blackadder, who heaved an enormous sigh and put his head back in his hands.

"Any other alternatives?" George finally squeaked out after a few minutes.

"Yeah. Place has been bombed out, nobody left, no place to stay, no food, et-bloody-cetera."

Silence greeted this one, too, until the albino's natural good cheer came to the rescue. "I bet we could make it work somehow, in that case. We could plant things and whatever, and live in the ruins."

"Plants don't grow overnight," Arthur warned wearily.

George got up and tried to pace. "There are other problems, too. We don't have any civilian clothes. If we go swanning back to Dartmoor in our uniforms there's going to be trouble all along the way. People reporting us, and such. At the very least they'll want to ask us for news of their loved ones – soldiers, you know – and how the war's going. Worst case they'll start questioning us and we'll be in trouble."

"We could steal a car." Baldrick looked gleeful. "Got some experience with that meself. Steal a car and drive all the way to Arthur's farm."

Blackadder's answer was a nasty growl. "What about the ruddy Channel?"

Gilbert shook his head. "Stealing the car's going to be a problem, too. All five of us have to be near enough to hop in once you've got it running. Again we'll look suspicious, skulking around in uniform."

They thought and thought. "Huh, well, the only way I can see getting back to Blighty is in an aeroplane," Baldrick said offhandedly, and the other four snapped to attention.

Gilbert yelled, "Flash!"

"No!" Blackadder countered. As they all sobered, he explained, "Don't you think that insufferable bastard would report us? Get us embroiled in more battles?"

"Maybe that'd be best." Arthur groaned as they all turned to look at him. "Frankly I'd rather die in a battle than get shot for desertion."

"Firing squads are no fun," Blackadder agreed.

More silence.

Half an hour later, the captain rose from his bunk. "Shall I telephone the git?" Under his breath he muttered, "With any luck he's dead too."

"Not Flash! He's a hero!" At these predictable words of Baldrick's, everyone else nodded feverishly, even Arthur, who didn't quite believe it. But if the flamboyant pilot was their only way out of here –

"You – you might ask if he'd help us get away," he suggested, as Blackadder reached for the phone. "What's the worst he could do?"

Everyone focused on this. "No," the captain finally decided, and all the others nodded. "After a day like today, I'm not sure I'm up to matching wits with him. Tell you what. Let's all get some sleep, and I'll call him in the morning. We still have enough food and water for a few more days."

His men agreed and wearily peeled off their filthy (and in the case of Gilbert and Arthur, painty) uniforms before collapsing onto their bunks for sleep.

…

_For several years I've been wanting to do something about this story. Sorry, I hope nobody's a big Darling fan! I'm not sure where to go from here but will think of something eventually. Thanks for reading. There will be more, but I'm not sure when._


	8. Deception

**Deception.**

"You blokes are all a bunch of _pussies,_" Flashheart snarled, giving a vicious pelvic thrust in Blackadder's direction. "Drop trou and bend over, Slackie, so I can give you the jolly rogering you deserve for a stupid idea like this!"

Blackadder smirked at him. "It was Baldrick's plan."

Baldrick eagerly leaped up with a grin and began unbuckling his belt. "Let's doo-oo-oo _it!_" he squeaked.

Flash made a very theatrical gagging noise, turning away, which brought him face-to-face with Gilbert. "And you! Honestly, Gilbert, I expected better from _you._"

"Ah, Flash, give us a break," the albino grinned, as Baldrick sank sadly back onto the bunk, his trousers still hanging open. "If you knew you were going to die, would you go?"

"Well, you've got me there, I have to admit. Though I'm not likely to die, am I? Woof!"

"Woof…" the rest chorused weakly.

Blackadder then got up to pace, squirming around the posing Flashheart each time he made a circuit of the small bunker. "Got any ideas?"

"Matter of fact, I do, Slackbladder. You're not going to like it, though. You'll have to shave."

The captain put a hand to his thin mustache. "Shave off my bloody mustache? Forget it. Come up with a new plan."

"Wait, though, wait." Arthur sat up. "What was your idea?" he asked. "If the choices are shaving or facing a firing squad, I'm betting Captain Blackadder would shave."

George beamed. "By golly, Arthur, you are so _incredibly_ sarcas—"

"Enough!" Blackadder snapped this out and George nearly swallowed his tongue. "All right, git, let's hear the plan."

Ten seconds later the squad froze, before Gilbert pushed his face into a pillow to conceal his violent guffaws. Blackadder drew his service revolver and whacked him on the back with it, but the albino wouldn't stop laughing. The faint sounds of "kesesese" floated up through the lumpy pillow, audible to all.

"Shut it, wanker," Arthur said wearily, now mostly resigned to Flashheart's insane plan. Because if it worked…they'd be home and dry, possibly by this time tomorrow. "Let's do it."

Flash winked at him. "Now that's the kind of talk I like to hear! Lie low, ladies, and I'll be back after I talk to Parkhurst. She's bound to have some ideas."

"Please don't tell on us, sir," Baldrick quavered, finally doing up his belt.

"Don't worry. When Flashheart gives his word, it's given. Woof!"

This time, the answering chorus of "Woofs" was much more exuberant.

…

"Got to fly a secret night mission," Flash said negligently to Melchett, as he paced around the office at HQ.

"What secret night mission? I don't know anything about a secret night mission! Daaar—Oh, yes. Darling's dead. What a bloody nuisance. Anyway, what secret night mission?"

"General, with respect," and here Flash coughed, "if you knew about it, it wouldn't be secret, would it?"

The general pursed his lips. The man had a point. "Absolutely. When will you be back?"

"Morning? Maybe. I'll be back when I'm back." The flamboyant commander leaned forward and put his fists on Melchett's desk. "Got to look after some – _friends_ of mine," he whispered with a wink.

"Friends? What do you mean?" Melchett had picked up the furtive tone and responded equally softly.

"Some lady friends of mine. Taking them back home. They're going to wait for me at a safe house in York."

The general missed the implication of a safe house and instead asked, "Lady friends?" His voice had risen to normal so Flash shushed him. "What do you mean? _Camp_ followers?" The disdain in his whispered tone was evident. He didn't need that sort of person around his men!

"Something like that, yes; girls who love me, you know. They followed me from Blighty to the front and now they need to get back, now that I'll be running more dangerous missions."

"More danger- Why don't I know what's going on around here?" Melchett thumped his desk. "Where are these blasted women, anyway?"

"Just outside, sir, in the car. Probably chatting with Parkhurst."

"I want to meet these intrepid figures of British womanhood." He rose from his chair and gestured towards the manse's front door. "Following you here, now going back during a secret night mission – Do you think they'd mind? It's so long since I've seen a sympathetic face."

The squadron commander raised an eyebrow. "I'll bring them right in, sir. I'm sure they'll be happy to know you're sending them off with your best wishes."

"Indeed, indeed." Melchett flapped his hands towards the front door, and Flash strode purposefully out into the parking area.

…

Flashheart returned in less than a minute, his squadron of ill-dressed women behind him, with Parkhurst bringing up the rear. "Here we go, General. These are my lady friends."

Blackadder held his breath as the old walrus-brain inspected them. Surely he'd spot the men beneath the hasty makeup, dresses and wigs? Oh, he'd shaved his mustache, and Baldrick had even managed to wash his face, but even Melchett (who'd once been taken in by George in drag) wouldn't believe that all five of them were actually females?

"Ladies," the deep voice boomed, "Lord Flashheart is taking you back to England with my blessings." He shook Gilbert's hand.

The albino patted his wig of auburn curls and simpered. "Thank you, sir," he whispered in a flirty falsetto. Blackadder heard Parkhurst, in the back of the room, coughing to disguise her laughter.

"It's a shame you have to leave. There's not enough female companionship around here," Melchett went on, stroking his mustache. Was he trying to goad Blackadder? If he was, it was working. Maybe he was just flirting with Gilbert.

"Sir," Arthur piped up in a girly tone, "perhaps we could have a little drink before we go? To wish us luck?" He batted his eyelashes at the burly man, but the effect was spoiled by his enormous eyebrows.

Yet Melchett still didn't seem to grasp it. "Of course. A splendid idea, splendid, though none for you, Squadron Commander! Don't want you flying home drunk!" He moved to his drinks cabinet; Flash and Parkhurst both snorted.

"Let me get that out of your way," flirty Arthur suggested, reaching for the rum bottle, which was nearest. Melchett ignored that and pulled out a bottle of sherry, oblivious to the rapidly-disappearing contents of his rum bottle as Kirkland passed it around. Blackadder took a deep draught and hoped none of them would get silly and give themselves away!

Melchett turned from the cabinet with a tray full of tiny glasses. "Here you go, ladies." He handed the glasses of sherry to each of them, except Kirkland, who was still holding the rum bottle.

"Oh. Excuse me." The blond set the now-empty bottle on top of the drinks cabinet and absently picked up the gin instead of taking the proffered sherry glass. Blackadder groaned _sotto voce._ Even an idiot like Melchett would notice that!

But the blubber brain frowned down at the remaining sherry glass and then, shrugging, raised it in a toast. "Safe flight!" Everyone quickly swallowed the sherry, except again Kirkland, who (by now hiding at the back of the group) continued to take big gulps from the gin bottle, leaving a ring of bright pink lipstick around its mouth. Gilbert reached back to take the bottle from his friend and quickly capped it before setting it back on the drinks cabinet. The blond pouted at his friend, and the albino blew him a kiss, making them both burst into giggles. Blackadder closed his eyes. The _morons!_

Melchett was now passing along the row of as-it-were women, shaking hands and wishing them well. "Goodbye," George trilled artificially, when the general got to him. Blackadder held his breath. The outfit George had on was very similar to the one he'd worn as "Georgina" – and he hoped this wouldn't arouse Melchett's suspicions. They should get out of here as soon as possible! He set his empty sherry glass on the drinks cabinet and tried to hustle his "women" out the door, but the general had captured George's hand in his own and peered intently into "her" eyes.

"Ah, my dear, you remind me of my beloved Georgina. What a woman!" Melchett winked. "Still, long gone now, can't be helped. Safe flight," he repeated, leaning forward to kiss the embarrassed George on the cheek; Baldrick repressed a snort and Blackadder stepped on his foot to shut him up. Then the captain turned to chivvy the temporary drag queens outside before this farce could go on any longer.

When at last he reached the door, the final one to leave, Blackadder turned back. "Oh, goodbye, dear General Melchett," he said happily, smugly, in the most girly tone he could manage. "I hope we shall never meet again." Before the idiot could grasp what he'd said, he scurried outside and tumbled into the back of Flash's staff car, and Bob Parkhurst drove off into the night.

…

_Will our heroes make it? Stay tuned!_


End file.
